The Shadows

by Chance, Megan

  “You know I do,” I said, marveling at the truth of it. “But I think friendships, too, are important, don’t you? I would hate to be the kind of wife who plays no part in her husband’s real life.”

  He drew away. “His real life?”

  I wished I’d said nothing; I wanted him to go on kissing me. But he was looking at me in a way that made me want to answer honestly. “I would want to know how he feels about things. What he thinks of the world. What his passions are.”

  “It’s what I want as well.” He released me. “Now look about you, and you can readily see what my passions are.”

  The study had been his father’s, and I had been in it as a child. It seemed much the same, dark with leather and the smell of tobacco and old wood; there were piles of books lying about, which had not been true when his father was still alive. At one end was a fireplace of cherry and black marble, flanked by fat leather chairs and solid tables with clawed feet. The curtains—deep-brown velvet with heavy tassels—were drawn back from windows that let in the evening, and the brass gas sconces glowed warmly. The room was welcoming and comfortable; I felt at home in it, even though it was purely a man’s room.

  A large desk was at the other end, and beside it were the display cases—at least four, and above them box frames, each holding a piece of Celtic antiquity. One held a hammered bronze mask, another a silver torc—a crescent-shaped necklace—with a bull’s head decorating each end. There was a small stone relief carved with the goddess Brigid, showing her trinity: maiden, matron, and crone. Beside it was an illustration of the Morrigan, the Irish goddess of war. Like Brigid, the red-haired Morrigan had been depicted in her three aspects. She was the Morrigan, but she was also Badb the battle crow; Nemain the Venomous, the inciter of frenzy; and Macha the Hateful, the collector of souls. There were ravens perched on her shoulders and severed heads, death and destruction all around her—

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Patrick had come up behind me. He leaned over my shoulder, pointing at the picture, so close I felt his warmth and smelled his clean, citrusy cologne.

  “Beautiful and terrible,” I said.

  “See the severed heads? The Celts believed the soul resided in the head, and so taking the head of an enemy not only gave them power, but kept that soul from reaching the Otherworld.”

  I shivered. “What did they do with the heads?”

  “Displayed them on stakes, mostly. As warnings to their other enemies.” His voice lowered. “Sometimes I dream about the Morrigan.”

  I turned to him. “So do I! Terrible dreams. Lately quite often, nearly every night. I think it might be because my grandmother—” I broke off the moment I realized what I’d almost said.

  “Your grandmother?” he prompted. “I heard she wasn’t well.”

  “Yes. She’s . . . she’s quite ill.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  I saw the compassion in his eyes, and I wanted to tell him about her madness. And if you do, it will ruin everything. “Oh, let’s not talk of this now. What did you want to show me?”

  “All of it. Everything I am. Some of these things have been in my family for generations.” He touched a bronze statuette resting on the top of the case. “This is the horse I told you about. And there, inside, see the serpent bracelet? It’s perfectly wrought, even for how primitive it is. And that raven statue too.” He smiled ruefully at me. “Though I wouldn’t want to see it in my dreams. And this—do you know what this is? I think it might be my favorite.” He pointed to another framed drawing, one different from the rest—not paper or parchment, but what looked like tree bark, very thin and a bit shredded. On it was painted a man with dark hair holding a pile of red berries, which he was offering to a woman who knelt beside him, her blond hair cascading over her shoulders. The painting was faded and hard to see, bits of the bark missing altogether.

  “It’s very old,” Patrick went on. “Do you recognize it?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “Should I?”

  “It’s your namesake. Grainne. And Diarmid, offering her berries from the magical rowan tree in the forest of Dubros.”

  “Oh.” I caught my breath. “Oh yes, of course.”

  Patrick’s gaze held me. “Grainne was the daughter of Cormac, the High King of Ireland, and she agreed to marry Finn, the leader of Cormac’s band of elite warriors and bodyguards. But at the great betrothal feast, she became frightened of Finn and so she asked his lieutenant, Ossian, to take her away. He refused. So she went to Diarmid Ua Duibhne, the most handsome of the Fianna. He refused as well. But Diarmid had a gift that had been given to him by one of the children of the sidhe, a lovespot that made any woman who saw it fall in love with him.”

  I let him tell the story I knew very well—it was one of my favorites. I loved the sound of his voice, the way he looked at me. “The ball seirce,” I breathed.

  “The ball seirce. And even as Diarmid turned Grainne away, she saw it and fell in love with him. Grainne laid a geis upon Diarmid that compelled him to take her away from Finn. That night, she put a sleeping potion in the wine of all the warriors but Oscar and Ossian, and with their help, she and Diarmid stole away.

  “Finn was furious when he discovered the theft of his betrothed. He followed Diarmid and Grainne zealously, for years, determined to win her back and destroy the one who had been his friend. Finn sent all manner of magical beings after them. He called on every alliance he had. But Diarmid defeated them all: the three sea-champions and their armies at the hill of Curra Ken Amid, the evil hounds of Slieve Lougher, the giant of Dubros. Ossian and Oscar, troubled by Finn’s temper, did what they could to help Diarmid and Grainne, and sometimes they were aided by Diarmid’s foster father, the love god, Aengus Og.”

  Patrick’s voice kept me captive. I’d always dreamed of my own Diarmid, the white knight of my fantasies, who would fall in love with me and spirit me away, braving all threats and evils to be with me. A fantasy, yes, but Grainne was my namesake. It was easy to imagine how it had been, how breathless and exciting.

  Patrick continued, clearly enjoying himself. “Finally, Finn tracked them to the magical wood of Dubros, but Oscar said that any man who would harm Diarmid would have to get through him first. Oscar was the greatest of Finn’s warriors; even Finn was no match for him. So Finn went to the Land of Promise, to his old teacher, a witch, who said she would help. She hunted down Diarmid on a flying water lily and tried to kill him with poison darts. But Diarmid was the best spearman alive—he slew the witch with a single hurl of his Red Spear, and Finn was forced to abandon his quest. When Aengus Og asked for peace, Finn agreed, and Grainne and Diarmid were exiled and married.

  “But after a time, Grainne grew lonely. She wanted to see her father, and so Diarmid agreed to take her to the High King’s feast. There, Diarmid was awakened in the night by a terrible sound, and when he went to investigate, Finn told him that it was a wild boar; Diarmid was under a geis by Aengus Og never to hunt boar because Diarmid’s half brother had been turned into one magically when they were youths. Diarmid asked for Finn’s assistance, which Finn refused, and Diarmid went alone into the night.

  “And there, on the plain of Ben Bulben, Diarmid was slain by the great boar that was his half brother, and as he lay dying, Oscar and Ossian pleaded with Finn to save him, because water drunk from Finn’s hands was healing. Finn brought Diarmid water, but before he reached him, he remembered what Diarmid had done and so he let the water slip through his fingers. Three times he did this, and three times Ossian and Oscar begged for him to heal their friend. At last, Finn agreed; but by then it was too late, and Diarmid died.”

  “It’s so sad,” I said, as overwhelmed by the story as I always was.

  Patrick smiled gently. “Not so sad really. Aengus Og took Diarmid’s body to his home and brought his soul back now and then so he could talk to him.”

  “But Grainne married Finn then. So it is sad.”

  “I suppose she didn’t re
ally love Diarmid.”

  “I like to think she did. And that when he died, Grainne had no choice but to marry Finn. I like to think she mourned Diarmid the rest of her life.”

  “You don’t think she loved him just because of the lovespot?”

  I shook my head. “Perhaps at the start. But then I think it became real for both of them. He was an honorable man. How could she not love him?”

  “Honorable? For stealing away his captain’s betrothed?”

  “He was under a geis. And even when they ran away, he resisted her for Finn’s sake.”

  Patrick stared at me. “How do you know that?”

  “Grandma says so. The way she tells it, Diarmid left bread behind each night to signal to Finn that he’d not yet . . . well—you know.”

  “I’ve never heard that part of the story.”

  “It mattered to him—his loyalty to Finn.” I looked again at the illustration, Grainne’s long golden hair.

  “I guess that loyalty bought him something. Aengus Og gave Diarmid’s body back, so he’s supposed to be sleeping now with the rest of the Fianna, ready to return when the dord fiann blows. It’s all just a legend, but I wish . . .” Patrick sighed, and then he said softly, “Perhaps I could be your Diarmid, Grace.”

  There was something slow and searching and familiar in his eyes, and my dream flitted back, Patrick on the riverbank and then . . . not Patrick.

  I pushed the image away. “What would we be running from?”

  Patrick glanced at the display case. “Why couldn’t we be running to something? The stories are important, Grace. And these relics are too. They’re our heritage. My father told me we’re caretakers. That our job is to keep them safe until they can be returned.”

  “You mean to return them to Ireland?” I asked. “But how valuable they must be.”

  “Some are. The most valuable pieces aren’t here. They’re in safekeeping.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a key, which he inserted in the lock of one of the cases. He opened the glass and picked up a long flat piece of stone carved with markings that looked like bird feet—runes. He held it reverently. “But this may be the most important piece I own, though it’s worth little in money.” He held it out to me. “It’s an ogham stick. Take it.”

  “Are you certain? I don’t want to break it.”

  “You won’t. It’s stone. You’d need the strength of Cuchulain.” Another legendary Irish hero.

  I took the stick from Patrick. I expected the feel of cool stone, but it was warm, as if it had been resting in the sun. And growing warmer. Almost . . . hot. Scalding. Burning. “Ouch! Oh—” I gasped and thrust it back at Patrick so hard he nearly fumbled and dropped it. I looked down at my fingers, expecting to see blisters form, but there was nothing. The skin wasn’t even red, and yet it had been so hot. . . .

  Patrick frowned and looked down at the stone in his hands, asking sharply, “What did you say?”

  “I—Nothing.”

  His frown deepened.

  I worried that I might have offended him, that he would think me somehow not the girl he wanted. “It’s fascinating, Patrick. Truly.”

  His expression cleared. “I’ve arranged the cases so sunlight hits them every day near sunset. I like to come in here and look at them then. They look as if they’re glowing. Magical.” He set the ogham stick carefully back into the case. “Some of these things . . . the old magic’s still in them. You can feel it.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t joking, and there was that reverence again in his voice, along with an odd excitement. I thought perhaps he meant magic as in presence, the way some things seemed to hold their history within them. My grandmother’s horn had been like that. Sometimes when I held it, I could have sworn I heard the battles it had been in, the cries of men, the clash of swords, and the swoosh of spears rushing to their targets.

  “They’re so full of history,” I agreed.

  “They are, but that’s not what I mean. I mean . . .” He hesitated. “I mean magic.”

  “You can’t mean real magic.”

  “Don’t you believe in it?”

  “I believe some things feel almost alive,” I said. “They’re so old, and they’ve seen so much that I think they just become . . . imprinted.”

  “Yes.” His gray-green eyes were lit with an inner fire. “Though it’s more than that too. Grace, can I tell you something without you thinking I’m mad?”

  “Of course.”

  He clutched my fingers as though he was afraid I would dash away. “You know I’m involved with the Fenian Brotherhood.”

  The echo of Derry’s words, his questions, came into my head. “Yes.”

  “We’ve raised money for the rebels in Ireland, but the last uprising was a disaster. Things have grown desperate. I was there, Grace. To see such a loss of hope . . . I remembered something my father had told me, about the old magic, and I thought: What could it harm?”

  “The old magic?”

  “We’ve done something amazing, Grace. In only a few weeks, everything will change. Everything. I can’t speak of it now, not yet, but it’s real. It’s real, and it’s as alive as it always was. And soon the whole world will know of it—”

  “I think if the two of you don’t come to the parlor, Mama might call for the police,” Lucy said from the door.

  Patrick released my hands and sprang away in a single moment.

  I was dazed, still captured by the things he’d said. The old magic. Something amazing. Real and alive. I didn’t think him mad. I didn’t know what to think, except that I wished Lucy had stayed away a few moments longer, because Patrick gave me a quick glance, a shake of his head, and I knew that what he’d told me was to be kept secret and that he would not speak of it before the others.

  “Of course,” he said to his sister. He turned to me with a smile. “I’ve kept you to myself long enough. Go on with Lucy. I’ll be there as soon as I lock these up.”

  I nodded. He met my gaze, that glow still in his eyes, and I felt as if the two of us were together in something bigger than ourselves—and I liked the feeling.

  When we left the room, Lucy gave me a simpering smile. “How close you were. Why, it’s almost scandalous.”

  I said nothing. My mother would hardly mind, and I didn’t think hers would either, given that the two of them were conspiring to get Patrick and me together.

  Lucy put her hand on my arm, stopping me. “Grace,” she said urgently, all nastiness gone. “I need a favor.”

  “You have a funny way of showing it.”

  “I’m sorry. Truly I am. It’s only . . . well, you must know how jealous I am of you and Patrick. You must know—”

  “What do you want, Lucy?”

  “Derry wants to take me to a parish fair,” she rushed on. “He said to ask you to come as our chaperone. He’s worried for my reputation.”

  “Is he? How good of him. Is that what he was telling you before our shopping trip? That he couldn’t meet you alone because he worried for your reputation?”

  She at least had the sense to blush. “That was different. Other people will see us. It’s a parish fair.”

  “He’s Catholic then, as I thought. Lucy, surely you must see how useless this is? Your mother—”

  “I don’t need a lecture from you, Grace. You needn’t be so self-righteous. It’s not as if I’m asking you to accompany us to a dance hall. Will you come or not?”

  “It’s not seemly even if I do. It will just be the three of us caught in a compromising position, and I cannot afford it.”

  “Then ask your brother to come too. He’ll be chaperone enough for all of us.”

  That was true, though the thought of asking my brother to go, or trying to keep him away from liquor or cards if I did, was exhausting.

  “Please,” Lucy whispered fervently. “Please. I’ll do anything you ask in return.”

  It was truly the last thing I wanted to do. A provincial parish fair. My brother. Derry
with Lucy. I felt a flash of jealousy that unnerved me. How ridiculous you are. I’d just left Patrick. It was Patrick I wanted. Needed.

  Lucy kept going. “It will be fun. There will be games, and food. Puppets, he said. A magic lantern show. I hardly ever see him. You must help me, Grace. I’m quite desperate.”

  It was that, finally, that made me give in. Lucy was going to be my sister—hopefully—and she would go with Derry whether or not Aidan and I were there. I could protect her this much.

  Reluctantly, I nodded. “Very well. I’ll try to convince Aidan.”

  “There will be drink there,” she said.

  “Then I’m certain he’ll come.”

  Lucy laughed. I didn’t know whether it was at my joke or in relief that I’d said yes.

  I asked, “When is it?”

  “Derry has Thursday evening off.”

  I sighed. Evening. Of course. It was not only the hardest time to think of an excuse to leave the house, it was the worst time to go anywhere with Aidan.

  “Oh, thank you. Thank you,” Lucy said. “I’ll make certain you don’t regret it. I promise.”

  I regretted it already. Derry. Watching me. Waiting.

  I looked longingly over my shoulder, back to the study. I thought of the things Patrick had said and that fire in his eyes. “Perhaps I could be your Diarmid, Grace.” And I told myself I wished to be nowhere else but with him, listening to his talk of Celtic history and magic.

  ELEVEN

  Grace

  Why would I want to spend the evening with you and Lucy Devlin and her new boy?” Aidan asked, lolling on my bed, tossing about the worn pillow that Mama had embroidered with daffodils.

  “Put that down,” I said, grabbing it from him. “There will be plenty of drink to be had, I understand. And what else have you to do?”

  “Plenty more than playing nanny. There’s a card game at the Bucket with my name on it.”

  “What will you gamble away this time? Mama’s shoes?”

  “Perhaps this,” he said, grabbing back the pillow. “It’s a pretty thing.”